


Shattered Into Ash

by ArcheaMajuar



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Contemplating Past, Dialogue Heavy, First Kiss, Greg's POV, Hurt/Comfort, John's POV, M/M, Panic Attack, Past Violence, Sherlock's POV
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-22
Updated: 2019-12-03
Packaged: 2021-02-26 01:08:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,461
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21524983
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ArcheaMajuar/pseuds/ArcheaMajuar
Summary: “That’s right, that’s right,” mumbled Greg in a low, raspy voice. Shifitng even closer to the detective, Lestrade put his broad palm upon Sherlock’s shoulder, “Breathe properly, in and out, focus on your breathing and on me, I’m here.”
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/Greg Lestrade, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson - mentioned/unfulfilled
Comments: 12
Kudos: 107





	1. John - The Things We Lost in the Fire

**Author's Note:**

> English is not my mother tongue as I'm from the Czech Republic. There are mistakes in the story, I know, but I don't have anyone around to give me their feedback on the fic, grammar and so on (but if you'd like to let me know about the mistakes, please, do so in the comments bellow or just send me an email (you find it on my profile page), it'd be much appreciated)
> 
> I'm really sorry for the errors, but I hope you'll enjoy this work anyway :)
> 
> The first chapter is from John's Point Of View, the second is from Greg's POV, and the third one is from Sherlock's POV. The title of both, the story and the chapters, comes from the song by Bastille called Things We Lost In The Fire.

It was more than two weeks since Sherlock had come back from the dead. John, however, still couldn’t get used to it, and not only to his friend’s presence, to his humour, and sassy remarks, but he wasn’t entirely sure how to incorporate the work with him into his new life. Of course, right now he was heading to a crime scene accompanied by who else than Sherlock, yet he felt like he… like he was doing so only to help his friend to re-establish his life here, in London. Otherwise, he would’ve been quite alright with remaining in his office and doing his job. That was on one hand.

But on the other hand, Sherlock was unusually talkative during the ride, showing an unexpected amount of interest in John’s well-being, which sort of pleased him even though he was far away from admitting it as he was, of course, glad Sherlock wasn’t dead, but somehow he wasn’t that attached to him as he used to. As if the most of his feelings evaporated with the amount of time spent by mourning.

There was no friendly warmth between them, the banter seemed forced and somehow joyless, and whereas his chest had been bursting with affection for Sherlock back then, now its hollowness was almost painful, and definitely deafening.

 _You’ve decided to return too late, my boy_ , tasted John such words on his tongue and they were burning with intense desire to be said, to be shouted at Sherlock in the most hurt voice he would be ever able to produce.

He yearned to show Sherlock how much he had loved him, how much he had missed him, and how much sorry he actually was when knowing that the opportunity had been already lost.

John moved on and wasn’t willing to go back save for a few exception, regarding occasional case-solving should he happened to be available. And, obviously, should Sherlock even wished to be accompanied by him. It was clear to John that someday Sherlock would find a replacement for him, which wouldn’t be an easy task, but John clang to that hope as he would have never wanted to see Sherlock completely alone again.

Although he was adamant to make sure Sherlock wouldn’t plunge back into a solitary way of life, he deliberately and with great effort ignored a pang of jealousy once he thought of another person being in the centre of Sherlock’s attention. He couldn’t help it, but it would be inappropriate to act on it, so forcing himself to turn again to his friend, he asked him a pointless question in order to focus on anything else than this ridiculous emotions of his.

Stepping outside of the cab, he nodded at Lestrade who was standing quite casually at the entrance of a building which John guessed was an abandoned. By the Lestrade’s hands in the pockets of his long black coat and not really annoyed expression, John would have assumed the murder had been an ordinary one if such a deed as a murder could’ve ever been labelled like that, however, if it was so, Lestrade wouldn’t have called for Sherlock Holmes, would’ve he?

Suddenly curious, his heart beat speeding up, at Sherlock’s heels he approached Lestrade and followed him inside the building. Some of its windows were broken, so even though the interior lights weren’t operational, they could see quite well despite the amount of dust, lingering in the air and covering everything in the sight. The floor, the wrecked cupboards, the stairs, the frames of the windows… everything.

But beside muffled voices and the steps of three men inside, it was completely quiet in here, and a shiver ran down John’s spine as he realized such a place was an ideal one for a coldblooded murder. Once he got hold of himself again, embarrassment washed over him as he perceived his reaction to be one of a coward, he coughed, however, not even John was sure whether he really did so to fool others and his own perception of a manly, fearless man.

“Yeah, it’s pretty dusty in here,” grumbled Lestrade next to him, his expression a bit sympathetic as they briefly looked at each other, before Lestrade glanced up the stairs on the other side of the hallway they were walking through. “It’s the room right in front of us, on the mezzanine.”

John entered the aforementioned area as the last one and he made just a couple of steps before he halted, taken aback by the abrupt scent of dried blood that literally snapped him right into his face. Placing a hand upon his mouth and nose, being more surprised than disgusted, he moved forward again. He should have expected that the body would be already decaying in such a detached place, but… it was quite a long time since he had been on a crime scene last time.

Venturing closer, his eyes laid on a half-naked man with a bushy black bear. The hair was tangled, greasy, and apparently un-kept, the face pale, eyes closed, mouth agape, and around the traces of dark dried blood were. However, the man’s, (probably homeless man’s, John noted) torso magnetized John’s startled look as the skin was all pink or red or purple from the beating the man must have taken.

He heard Greg talking about cans and golf clubs, which John though was possible, but he rather opted for a closer examination. Squatting down, he looked carefully at the wounds, being abashed by the sight, but as a doctor, he maintained his professionalism and revealed his thoughts on some of the remnants of beating to Lestrade.

For John had already become able to ignore the smell, he lowered his head again, inspecting the victim’s eyes and mouth, then neck and palms.

“We’ve tried to gather something from under his fingernails, but can’t say it would be of any use. There might be just dirt and other crap,” Greg informed him, yet his voice was a bit odd, which John heard, but tossed the information aside till he had the examination finished. He glanced at the man’s trousers and shoes, painted by blood, too, however, the remaining pieces of clothes made him wondering why the hell the attacker needed to strip the victim down to the waist. To see the skin cracking open under the blows? To see the blood dripping…? Or was the attacker just a junkie, unaware of his doings as he only wanted the t-shirt and jacket to make himself warm?

“What do you think, Sherlock? You think it might be an act of a personal vengeance?” he asked, not really looking up, but as the answer wasn’t coming, he glanced around, irritated and suddenly alerted as he remembered the trembles within Greg’s voice.

Getting up, he didn’t see Sherlock, but managed to spot Lestrade’s back.

What was this about? he mused, confused as his irritation grew out of frustration for being left here alone. Why didn’t they bother to spare a word that they were going into other room?!

John hurried up after them, up the stairs and towards a room on the first floor. However, right at the doorframe, he stopped as he found out Lestrade was standing only a couple of steps in front of him.

“What’s the matter?” he blurted out as he saw only Lestrade’s back while Sherlock seemed not to be here, but then, Lestrade moved an inch to the side, providing John with the view at… at his friend Sherlock Holmes, sitting with his back to the wall, his face almost grey, and John got an impression it wasn’t only due to the dimness of the vast room, due to the light coming inside thanks to the shattered glass in the giant windows.

The peeled white paint of the walls and the grains of dust floating in the air contributed to the overall dismal atmosphere, which unsettled John deeply.

Breathlessly, with a cold hand gripping on his guts, he watched his friend sitting over there like a pile of trouble, unmoving, just his hands seemed to be trembling while he was hugging his legs tightly, trying to hide behind them, trying to find a solace somewhere it wasn’t meant to be…

At last, he felt an urge to approach Sherlock and comfort him, but once he made the very first step, there was an arm, crossing his chest and his way.

“Stay back,” said Lestrade with a tone John had never heard him using before. His voice was vibrating with emotions, with care and fear, yet John knew well there was a hint in warning in it, which hurt John unexpectedly much.

Puzzled and pained, he ceased from confronting Greg about such behaviour among friends as he was more interested in the possible turn of events than in arguing. At least for now, so he did as Lestrade told him - John remained where he was, opting for being utterly silent whereas his eyes were frantically darting between Sherlock and Lestrade who was slowly and carefully advancing their shivering friend.

As Lestrade was getting close, John had enough time to ponder what actually happened even though he wasn’t able to come up with any other explanation than Sherlock was disturbed by the victim, probably by the terribly looking wounds, and it triggered some kind of anxiety or panic attack within him. So far, it was clear, though John was left completely clueless about whether that was something Sherlock had been suffering from since his return or whether… whether it could’ve been occurring regularly during the years before his faked death, during the years of their friendship, without… without him noticing anything…

He gulped as the sting of guilt sprang a different type of pain in his body, leaving his soul torn open and… empty. Yes, the guilt was there but somehow it wasn’t possible to reach him, to affect him properly.

With a blank expression, bewildered, he continued the quiet observation of the scene that was about to unfold in front of him. It wasn’t that different from his experience of calming down a frightened horse. It was bucking, kicking, and sweating, and John witness his friend the calm the animal down and pat him soothingly on the head.

Greg’s steps towards Sherlock were similarly prudent, and he was moving painstakingly slowly, always keeping in the Sherlock’s eyesight in case he would look up. Patiently closing the distance between them, Lestrade in the end squatted down, John seeing his profile as the eyes of Inspector didn’t leave Sherlock for a single second.

“Sherlock, it’s me, Lestrade,” heard John, and it weren’t the words that struck him as comforting, it was the tone the man used. His voice was smooth, deep, and unbelievably gentle, and John for the second time in a span of a few minutes realized that he might haven’t known Greg at all for he wasn’t aware his friend could speak in such a way…

Anyway, there was no response on Sherlock’s side. He was still hugging his legs, trembling, fighting his inner demons, but once Lestrade shifted another inch in his direction, Sherlock winced. Lestrade remained motionless, waiting patiently for a while before he kneeled on the dusty floor, sitting on his heels.

“Sherlock, it’s fine, I’m here,” he said softly, staring at Sherlock who flinched again, yet less violently this time, and eventually, he turned his gaze to Lestrade.

John would’ve never presumed it would take Greg only this to make Sherlock look at him, to make him really listen… Something within him whispered an that Lestrade must’ve possessed the knowledge how to deal with such situation. He must’ve seen Sherlock in this state… probably even before they met John.

Tasting bitterness at the back of his tongue, he in awe watched the two of his friends, and soon enough Lestrade spoke up again, “Sherlock, could you reach out to me? Just touch me, so I know I can touch you, too.”

John was quite unsure about Lestrade’s inquiry as on one hand, it was logical Sherlock wouldn’t like anybody to touch him without permission, but on the other hand, if Greg knew Sherlock needed to be hugged and comforted, he should do it without any delays. At least, in the army he was always prone to use the most efficient solution as fast as possible, though…

Before John got the opportunity to finish his thoughts, he was left astonished when Sherlock tentatively raised his hand and placed it on Lestrade’s shoulder that was already mere inches from him.

“That’s right, that’s right,” mumbled Greg in a low, raspy voice. Shifting even closer to the detective, Lestrade put his broad palm upon Sherlock’s shoulder, “Breathe properly, in and out, focus on your breathing and on me, I’m here.”

“Lestrade…” said Sherlock so quietly, so timidly, it moved something within John, something unpleasant, something biting him on the inside. “Could… could you…”

To John’s further dismal, seemingly it took just a moment for Lestrade to figure out what Sherlock was asking for. Almost as one they moved, as if in unison towards each other, yet Sherlock a bit tentatively as he let go of his legs, however, a prior he could kneel on his own, Lestrade was already drawing him to his chest, embracing him in a bear-like hug. Sherlock looked so lost in his arms, but… but safe, John judged from the fact Sherlock’s hands crawled up to Greg’s back, and it was just a plain guess, but he would’ve bet Sherlock’s nails were digging into the inspector’s black coat, clinging to him, needing him…

Upon comprehending this, he became realizing what was that thing eating him up from the inside, and it wasn’t just the blatant guilt, but primarily remorse, hatred and jealousy made themselves known, spreading through his cooling blood like a poison, aiming at his aching heart, pinching hard his consciousness, and shattering his self-respect into a million pieces.

Shaking on his wobbly knees, his eyes were still glued to Lestrade, consoling Sherlock, who didn’t complain a word, who was silently accepting the offered help while the light from the shattered windows was coating them in thin rays, turning the scenery into quite a breath-taking one. However, John couldn’t appreciate an ounce of it as his guts were like in an iron grip, his skin sweaty, and the dusty air couldn’t contribute him in the slightest. Unable to bear the soul-torturing sight anymore, he almost flew away from the room, rushed down the stair, and out of the building, any possible thoughts on the dead body dismissing in the instant.

Trembling, feeling like vomiting, he opted for walking on foot as there were no cabs around anyway. The past minutes shook him up terribly, and it somehow opened up his old wounds as… as he again experienced similar grief to the one when Sherlock died. But this time, he was there, alive and suffering, yet John couldn’t shake off the feeling he lost him for the second time, or… or maybe he had never even had him in the first place.

Greg was there for Sherlock now, and before. Even afore John had came into his life, and apparently, the two-years-long separation didn’t affect their bond, consequently it made John wonder whether… whether it had ever been love he felt for Sherlock. Or… why then he was able to move on, while Lestrade was still the same? Still patient with Sherlock, still willing, still waiting… still loving?

John’s heart throbbed with pain, but it wasn’t that bad, more like a reminder of pain he experienced two years ago, but now… his heart belonged to somebody else, even though… even though….

No, he wasn’t interested in a romantic relationship with Sherlock anymore, yet he would love to maintain their friendship, their friendly banter, their occasional capering. But now, he was afraid to look himself into his own eyes as he failed Sherlock even as his friend.

It was Lestrade who knew what to do. It was Greg who knew the darkest corners of Sherlock’s heart, who knew how to approach him, how to calm him down, and how to take care of him, which was something John had no idea Sherlock would’ve ever needed.

How could he be so blind? He was living with Sherlock, for God’s sake, and he had no idea he had been suffering from panic attacks!

Fists clenching out of anger, John struggled with keeping his steps on the road and not slipping into the side ditch. It hurt to understand he was not as good friend to Sherlock as he had seen himself to be, and now…

He had Greg. He had always had Greg…


	2. Greg – The Future Is In Our Hands

A couple days after the murder in the warehouse, Lestrade had already captured the woman responsible for the act. As John predicted, she was a heavy junkie and the victim stole some of her drugs, which resolved into her killing the other man. Fortunately, she was hiding among homeless people who didn’t wish to have a murdered living with them, so they turned her out right after they found out why she needed to hide, but…

Well, Lestrade was kind of suspecting that it took a nudge from Sherlock who had made some acquaintances among these people in the past, so maybe he should try to lure a piece of information about it once they would meet up again. However, Lestrade wasn’t sure when the time was about to come as since the incident, Sherlock hadn’t called him, though Greg was adamant not to contact him on his own.

He was worried about his friend, of course; however, he knew it was for the best to provide Sherlock with some air to breathe, for he would text him as soon as he was ready to talk.

Lestrade just had finished the thought, and his cell phoned buzzed because of the incoming message. Picking up the device, Greg leaned backwards in the armchair in his Scotland Yard office, fixing his eyes upon the display.

_I’d like to speak with you. When you got some time? SH_

_I’ll be finished at work in an hour. Yours, mine, or a neutral place? GL_

Lestrade typed the answer quite quickly, not really thinking it through, so it unsettled him a bit that the reply didn’t come immediately. He even forced himself to get back to the paperwork and fill up the whole page with his hasty handwriting when the cell phone buzzed again. Greg snatched it like it was about to run away, but there was literally nothing weird about the answer. He couldn’t find a single reason why Sherlock was hesitating, but it wasn’t meant for him to question Sherlock’s behaviour as long as it wasn’t self-destructive.

It simply stated, _Mine SH_ , but then an idea crossed Lestrade’s mind.

Sherlock actually might have doubted whether it was a good idea to contact him. He might’ve felt ashamed of what happened as he had never was one to ask for help, yet he happened to be in a situation when he needed Lestrade to take care of him. He could imagine how hard it must’ve been for his genius friend; however, at once he knew he hadn’t seen Sherlock in such a state for the first time.

Sure, for the first time since he had returned from the grave, but in the past, before Sherlock met John, he had a few panic or anxiety attacks Lestrade helped him to suffer through, thus… thus Lestrade didn’t suppose that Sherlock’s embarrassment would make him hesitate to send message. Maybe… maybe he wasn’t feeling well, maybe he was even worse than yesterday, so he didn’t have a choice. He actually had to call for him. His fingers shaking, mind wondering… It would’ve been hard to write an answer in such conditions. Or he was fine after all, sending a message, then preparing a tea, and with a cup he again got to his cell phone again.

Yeah, maybe…

But instead of pondering the processes inside Sherlock’s head (he had never understood them anyway), Greg rather opted for shifting his attention back to his work he should hurry up with if he didn’t want to let Sherlock wait for him for too long.

Once he was done, in one go he devoured the last, almost forgotten donut, grabbed his coat, and left his office. Howling his goodbye at Donovan, Lestrade paced towards the exit, then down the stairs to the parking lot that in a span of a minute remained behind him as he drove in the direction of Baker Street.

Tapping his fingers of the wheel, he navigated the car more or less automatically as his mind was wandering around the memory, he kept involuntarily recalling quite regularly. It was painful and rewarding at once for which Lestrade felt a bit ashamed, still it didn’t prevent a warm feeling from stretching throughout his chest as he at most treasured the way Sherlock reacted to his speech in the warehouse. He wasn’t sure whether he could do it after so many years, but here they were – Lestrade consoling Sherlock like he had done numerous times in the past.

A little sorrow smile nestled in the corner of Lestrade’s mouth, giving the whole memory somewhat bittersweet taste. On one hand, he was immensely glad Sherlock could calm down in his presence, that he accepted his help, his soothing touch, but on the other hand, he was honestly frightened what must’ve happened to Sherlock while he was… dead, away, whatever.

In fact, he had never had a panic attack at a crime scene before, which was the reason Lestrade was scared right now, moreover, it left him utterly stunned in the warehouse as he… he had never seen Sherlock in such condition… eyes wide, panic madly flickering in them, face paler than usually, his whole frame trembling, forehead sweating… Yes, he had witnessed the detective to be high as a kite, but never, never ever had his eyes had that crazy with fear look… And it scared Lestrade to death that there must’ve happened something to Sherlock that marked him so deeply he broke down.

How much he wished there was some anger within him. Some rage, some anger, some aggression, so he could punch the wheel, kick the tire of his car, or simply shout from the top of his lungs, but no… there was an absolute lack of such emotions within him as Lestrade was just worried sick about Sherlock, yet there still was a place for some pride and gratitude caused by Sherlock when he really reached out to him in order to meet at his place, yet there still was some place for joy from spending some time with that genius bastard as it felt like he was about to burst with fondness for the bastard.

Many people had told him he cared too much, and most fatally, he cared too much about a disrespectful junkie whom had not a single word of appreciation for him, though Lestrade somewhere deep inside had always felt it wasn’t true. Those moments when the detective was vulnerable, lost, desperate… when he was clinging to him, to his coat, to his shoulders like his life depended on it… when he heard those sobs, he felt his wet tears, the nails digging into his skin… when Sherlock let him help… Those moments were tearing Lestrade’s soul apart, filling his chest with sheer anguish, but after all, it only proved such people wrong because the intimacy he experienced with Sherlock, the trust Sherlock was showing to him, the safety Lestrade was desperately trying to grant him with…

These moments Lestrade cherished like nothing else in his entire life as they were assuring him that Sherlock knew that Lestrade cared.

He knew it, he acknowledged it, and allowed Lestrade to really see him… his fears, his wounds, his soul, and the trust between them was everything Lestrade would’ve ever allowed himself to want. Sure as hell he would’ve never said no to something else, but it was enough.

Feeling a bit anxious, he pulled over, hopped out of the car, and headed towards Sherlock’s flat. He was afraid of what state he was about to see Sherlock in, but once Mrs Hudson opened the door for him with a small, pleased smile, the burden of worries was shaken off of his shoulders, and Lestrade smiled back at the lovely lady.

“Good afternoon, Inspector,” she greeted him cheerfully. “It’s nice of you to visit Sherlock when John is not here. He’ll be glad to have some company, I’m sure.”

Under usual circumstances, Greg would’ve doubted her statement, but this time something else caught his attention.

“John’s not here?” he asked a bit dumbly as frankly, he wasn’t surprised by it for some reason.

“No, my dear, he and Mary left for a couple days. I think they’ve mentioned Brighton,” explained Mrs Hudson while closing the door behind Lestrade, who thanked her for letting him in and started to climb up the stairs.

“Come on in, Lestrade!” heard Greg upon his arrival on the first floor, and as he was way calmer than a few minutes ago, he pushed the door open without hesitation, his eyes right away spotting the figure standing at the window.

“Hi, Sherlock,” Lestrade gave his friend a little smile as he shut the door, prying his self-control not to ask the man how he was feeling.

“Would you like a cup of tea?”

“That’d be great, thanks,” said Lestrade, hang up his coat, and seated himself on the armchair next to the couch, from where he could see Sherlock preparing the tea. He wasn’t a great fan of the beverage himself, but he didn’t mind it, moreover, he couldn’t have responded in a different way as he was completely taken aback by the strained, almost choked sound of Sherlock’s voice.

Like he hadn’t been using it for quite a while, or… quite the opposite, like his throat was sore from the amount of talking or shouting, or… crying.

Lestrade gulped, shivering, but he quickly got his nerves under control as he saw Sherlock was moving throughout the kitchen effectively, and at least, he seemed to be capable of fetching himself a cup of tea or a warm meal. Also he wasn’t wearing a gown, but the regular pair of black jeans and a purple shirt which made his already stunning appearance totally immaculate.

Stop staring you freak, scolded Lestrade himself internally, forcing his gaze to look somewhere else, preferably somewhere Sherlock wasn’t about to appear.

“I’ve heard John’s went on holiday,” he rather clumsily opted for discussing topic neither him, nor Sherlock were much interested in, he could imagine.

“That’s what he believed he was doing,” snorted Sherlock and Lestrade felt a wave of warmth at the mischievous tone of his voice, his heart swelling. Sherlock must’ve been definitely better if he was comfortable with having a little bit of fun, even if a gleeful one. “But when I checked the weather in Brighton, there happened to be a remarkable downpour that shall last for the whole two days. Quite a pity, I should say if I cared.”

Lestrade raised his eyebrows at the acerbic tone of the utterance.

“Had an argument, the two of you?”

Sherlock poured hot water into a pair of cups, probably only pretending to be so absorbed in the act to answer right away, but Lestrade was patient, waiting calmly, and thanking his host for the tea once it was laid on the table in front of him.

He picked it up, smilingly absent-mindedly at the pleasant flavour of the beverage, so he almost missed Sherlock’s quiet murmur, “I’m not sure anymore…”

At his curious glance, Sherlock grimaced, adding, “Most of the conversation was John’s rambling, blaming me for not telling him about my… inclination to panic attacks, and then he… just left, saying he’ll come back after the vacation he’s taking with Mary.”

Sitting in silence, Lestrade stared at his friend, not really ready to accept the meaning of the words as… Well, was it that surprising John would’ve scolded Sherlock for not telling him?

In the end, he had to concede, it wasn’t that unrealistic, but maybe… it would be better to grant Sherlock with some recovery time before throwing all the dirt upon him. Of course, even Greg from time to time ran out of patience, yet mostly he was able to sooth his nerves in order to treat Sherlock in the most effective way, respectively with an open mind, kind words, and eventually with steady hands. Hardly ever did shouting at him any good.

As he carefully sipped at his tea, Lestrade’s thoughts wandered about, rekindling the memories of the years he had known Sherlock, how comfortable, he hoped, they both had become in each other’s company, how Sherlock’s primary reluctance to let anybody get close to him evolved into tolerance, and then he finally understood Lestrade didn’t do it out of pity, and moreover, not on the behalf of his brother, but simply because he liked him… because he accepted Sherlock the way he was and only tried to push him on the path that wouldn’t lead to his destruction.

And since then, Lestrade had been striving to keep him pointed in the right direction, in which he was adamant to continue even after his return from the land of the dead.

“I… I’m sorry you’ve seen me… that you’ve seen me in such a deplorable condition, “ spoke up Sherlock again and Lestrade’s heart throbbed again at the weakness emanating not only from the detective’s voice, but also from his frame, because as Lestrade glanced to him, Sherlock was leaned over his knees, cupping his cup, gazing into it, face pale.

For a second it occurred to Lestrade that his friend was shaking, however, he assigned it to his immense worries about Sherlock, so instead of imagining things, he paid attention to things that were said, feeling right away unable to let Sherlock talking such nonsense.

“There’s nothing to apologize for, Sherlock, and definitely nothing to be ashamed of,” he said a bit more firmly that he had desired, and acknowledging that, he also leaned over his knees to be closer to the younger man, his voice gentling, “It’s okay, Sherlock. I’m glad I could help and I wouldn’t have hesitated to do it again.”

Hoping Sherlock had noticed the honesty in his words, he kept looking at him, smiling mildly once their eyes locked, touched by the subtle shadow of gratitude in the green depths. Although it was too soon replaced by a searching gaze, Lestrade didn’t budge from the peculiar curiosity being aimed at him. Affection for the man, respect and everlasting will to keep ensuring him that Greg was there for him, supplied him with courage to say with the all sincerity he was capable of, “Anytime you feel like you need it, just ask for it. It may be my mere presence, a pointless small talk, or even a hug, Sherlock. Or just suggest it nonverbally and… and I’ll… I’ll do my best.”

The room then plunged into silence, marred by a subtle feeling of melancholy, which was only enhanced by the next remark Sherlock made, “John was so upset also for one more reason,” he said under his breath, yet Lestrade heard him quite well as he was completely focused on the other man. “And I guess it was because he didn’t know how to help me back then, and you did.”

“That’s no wonder. I’ve known you longer and I’ve seen you numerous times under the weather,” Lestrade shrugged.

“Exactly,” was the mysterious, yet somewhat self-explaining answer that left Lestrade puzzled, but he forgot it as soon as Sherlock rose to his feet, not moving for a second before he ventured around the table. Greg than intently watched as the younger man halted near him, seating himself on the desk of the table, hands in the lap, their knees almost bumping each other’s pair, the look in Sherlock’s green eyes sheepish and so much unlike him that it struck Lestrade odd, still he wasn’t able to deny he was curious about the outcome of this situation.

In anticipation, he cocked his head, gazing right into Sherlock’s handsome face which the man averted right away, sighing tiredly.

“I’m really grateful you were there. I… I have no idea how I’d have coped with the emotions that can’t leave me alone. I just can’t get rid of them… the ridiculous fear, the vanishing capacity to breathe, the accelerated heartbeat… I wish I could rely on you whenever I’d… break down again,” confessed Sherlock quietly, sincerely.

“You’re saying you need a handler?” sounded Lestrade more sarcastic that he wanted, realizing that quite painfully when Sherlock winced, a shadow of hurt crossing his face. “I’m sorry,” he hurried with an apology. “I’m sorry; I shouldn’t have said it… I…”

“No, that… that’s a fair point, I can’t demand…”

“Sherlock, I can definitely take some days off,” Lestrades asserted with assurance as Sherlock seemed to be so lost, so vulnerable, but the man just shook his head.

“For the next five years? Don’t be ridiculous. There’s not a chance my recovery is a matter of days, and I doubt I’ll ever recover fully, but that’s something you should be aware of, shouldn’t you?” sounded Sherlock as sceptical and as hopeless as Lestrade had never heard before, his heart throbbing painfully at it, his eyes going gentle with affection.

“Yes, I… I know that, but despite my work, you know you can call me anytime and…” he trailed off, searching for a way how to put his intention into words. He scratched his scalp, feeling a bit on the edge whether he truly wanted to suggest it, but then… he glanced at Sherlock’s somehow lifeless expression, and suddenly the decision was made not by his mind, “But if you’d like my help or… rather my assistance on your private case, I wouldn’t be cross, of course, in case John wouldn’t be available. Or you just wouldn’t want to be alone at home… You can come to my place. Or I can come here. Simply anything, Sherlock. Anything that could help you…”

At first, Sherlock was surprised by the litany of sentences, however, very soon his features softened, in the corners of his eyes glistened tears, but Lestrade sensed it was a good thing. The best thing.


	3. Sherlock – And We Will Never Be The Same Again

“You would… you’d really do these things for me?” whispered Sherlock, his voice on the verge of cracking, shaking, emotional.

Somewhere deep inside Sherlock knew he was irrational, childish, and totally pathetic, but couldn’t bring himself to care. For the past two years he had been feeling like shit, collapsing, getting better, collapsing… And then he realized the friendship with John was fucked beyond repair, which made him only wonder how it was possible that his bond with Lestrade survived everything. Simply everything, and the older man was tirelessly there for him.

Sherlock had always been fond of him, despite his occasional density, but once he hugged him, once they had a few chats, once he was capable of getting him better so effectively… He felt save with him, and wanted to feel so forever, even if it should mean he had to… alter some patterns of his behaviour, which Sherlock believed, he was doing right know.

His chest bursting with gratitude, his heart pounding violently at the soothing words Lestrade said, and there was nothing like a better answer than Greg’s gentle reply, “Of course, Sherlock, and I’d be happy to do even more.”

He thought he was about to break down again, but this time also on the outside as his body was trembling, tears burning, hands shaking, and having no idea what to do, he rose to his feet, on wobbly knees he headed back to sit on the couch. Crushing down on it, he inhaled deeply into his constricted chest, his vision blurry, but still he smiled faintly once he noticed Lestrade sitting on the table in front of him, watching his wearily.

“Come here, my boy,” were those in a soft growl said words like a comforting touch to his soul, patting him kindly in the similar way Lestrade drew him closer into a hug, holding him, his palms spread on his back, granting him with the feeling of safety Sherlock desired so much. And then, the younger man moved his arms as well, bringing them behind Lestrade’s back, clinging to him again, accepting his embrace, accepting his help, and letting the love towards Greg flow through his veins.

He shut his eyes and trembled as the voice of his heart grew so powerful, so intense, he couldn’t ignore it anymore, brushing Lestrade’s hair with his fingers, noticing how Greg gasped quietly. He repeated the gesture, feeling as he was drugged on the reactions he was receiving from Lestrade, from the way he was hugging him, the way he shivered, and weaved his fingers in Sherlock’s curly bangs.

He could be the smartest person in the whole London, yet his brain wasn’t able to supply the reason why Lestrade kept being so nice to him, so understanding, so patient. Since they had met so long time ago and the man had been learning what kind of a man Sherlock was, he was adapting to his needs, tolerating all of his quirks even though Sherlock knew some of them were driving him crazy.

He must’ve been fond of him very much, thought Sherlock while absent-mindedly pressing further into Lestrade, seeking solace in his frame where he had always found it. Greg kept giving and giving, helping and helping. Without questions, without demanding any explanations despite the fact Sherlock was aware he owed him one. It scared him how much he yearned to tell Lestrade, to be honest with him because… because he deserved it. He deserved much more and the explanation was the least Sherlock could provide him with.

“Thank you, Greg, for… for everything. I… I was so lost… in the warehouse,” quivered Sherlock at the sound of his own voice… so weak, so overflowing with fear. It took his breath away, stopped his mind from reeling forward, and Lestrade had to encourage him to continue:

“What happened, Sherlock?”

The gentle tone in a combination with the tender touch of Greg’s hand in his hair consoled Sherlock’s nerves enough, so he could speak up again, a bit steadily this time, “Two years I was trying to destroy Moriarty’s net all around the world, mingling with his ruthless mercenaries, avoiding suspicion, living in the constant horror of being discovered, and then… when… when they found out… It took weeks for Mycroft to get me out safely… I… I’ve already lost hope back then…”

Bracing himself from the wave of torturous memories, the tears fell on his cheeks, and biting his lower lip, he supressed the threatening sob. Inhaling and exhaling regularly, he calmed down a shroud, gradually relaxing again as he quietly relished the movements of Lestrade’s hand upon his back. He was drawing circles there, holding him close, and the younger man’s heart swelled at the apparent affection in these ministration. Je was almost choking on the amount of feelings that made themselves known.

“Damn, Sherlock, I… don’t know what to say… I just wish I could’ve prevented all of this from happening,” said Lestrade quietly. “To protect you from it… to support you more than I’ve actually done.”

“You’ve supported me more than you’ve ever had to,” withdrew Sherlock from the embrace to look into the pair of brown eyes, gleaming with serenity. Lestrade was intently watching him, carefully listening to everything he said… Accepting him, and… maybe….

He gulped and shivered as the beautifully warm sensation spread throughout his body as he finally, after all these years, allowed himself to think of Lestrade in the way he had always desired to, but… but then John came into his life, for a while replacing Greg, seemingly being a more suitable companion to him, however, even his own death didn’t force Lestrade to drop his love for him.

It might’ve been saying something about Greg’s ability to deal with the past, yet it didn’t matter much to Sherlock anyway.

Under the weight of the realization, of the intensity of his emotions, he took the plunge, feeling as the fight against them would be pointless, so he sighed tiredly, and still gripping on Lestrade’s shoulder, he leaned forward to bring their foreheads together. Closing his eyes, he endeavoured to clear his hazy mind, to put the mind palace into order again, however, it could be done only if he was about to come clean with his soul about which he would’ve argued he had just a few days ago.

Although he didn’t say more, Lestrade grasped the gesture correctly. In a span of mere seconds, Sherlock opened his eyes again once the older man planted his palm upon Sherlock’s wet cheek. Greg was smiling mildly, his look full of worries and insecurity though, and Sherlock experienced a powerful wave of anticipation.

He knew Lestrade wanted this, yet he was still hesitating, not rushing him into anything, and it was the moment Sherlock fell in love with him fatally. On one hand, feeling Lestrade’s breath mixing with his own, enjoying the almost vibrating atmosphere, but on the other one he was becoming absolutely restless as Greg shifted his hand, placing a thumb on Sherlock’s lips as if he was tempting him to something.

“You sure, my boy?” was the simple question upon which Sherlock parted his mouth, deliberately making Lestrade’s thumb press more into his lower lip. He heard as Greg’s breath got hitched in his throat, the pupils within his brown eyes widened, which set sparks of arousal into every inch of Sherlock’s body. “You sure, you’re not just looking for a substitute for John?” 

With a pained expression, Sherlock closed his eyes again.

“The truth, Sherlock,” murmured Greg. “Tell me the truth, that’s the only thing I beg you to do.”

Once it was said, Sherlock nodded, adamant about his decision to come clean, even though it could hurt the both of them.

“I… I admit I had very strong feelings for John, and I still have some, I won’t deny that,” he revealed, but fearing Lestrade would pull away, he firmed his grip on his shoulder and searched for Lestrade’s eyes. “But… He’s been there only for a minor part of my life while you… I… I wonder whether I’ll ever be able to repay you… repay what you’ve been doing for me despite all of my fuck-ups and…”

He saw as Lestrade was about to object, but Sherlock was quicker to assure him that, “I’m not doing that because I want to even the score, Greg. I… I want to kiss you because I’ve been fucking wanting to do it since we’ve met. John was the replacement for you… and not the other way around.”

Sherlock was even taken aback by the desperation within his own voice, how it trembled and how sincere his words were, coming straight from his heart, and he was utterly relieved when Lestrade’s brown eyes softened, love silently glowing in them.

“You want to kiss me?” he asked in a way that he almost purred and Sherlock was suddenly mesmerized by the tone, by the whole situation, by Greg.

“Yes, I do,” was the only reply he was capable of, and because Lestrade’s kind smile returned to his features, Sherlock assumed he was actually encouraged to do it.

Licking his lips, he tentatively pulled back an inch to place his mouth upon Lestrade’s in the next instance, marvelling at the warmth emanating from the touch, and revelling in the quite unexpected need for more. Moving his lips carefully, he gasped as Greg kissed him back with a low groan that sent a tingling sensation down Sherlock’s spine. It was wonderful. Intimate and tender, yet passionate once Greg buried his fingers again in Sherlock’s hair, slightly drawing him closer, and Sherlock moaned as the kiss deepened.

He loved it… the whole act, the taste of Lestrade’s mouth, the tongue mingling with his own, the stubble brushing his skin, and the knowledge Greg let him cluthing the collar of his shirt, holding him close, and he sort of started to realize, it was just a matter of seconds before he would climb onto Lestrade’s lap as the need to be closer appeared to evolve into an unbearable one… And like a right thing to do.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you very much for all the comments and kind words :) I'm thrilled you like the story :)


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